Lisa Noeli

by What He Doesnt Know

  He saw Jo give her brother an adoring, affectionate look, and frowned slightly. He would have to be careful not to offend Terence or accuse him of mismanagement. His old friend was clearly better suited to the creative side of running a theater.

  Daniel looked out again in the cavernous theater, then turned to Jo. She seemed to be studying him. He hoped his profile was sufficiently noble from her point of view, and then realized that he was thinking like an actor, something he would never want to be.

  He blamed the silly thought upon the unseen magician he had imagined. Some sort of mysterious hocus-pocus was wreaking havoc with Lord York’s ability to reason. If only he knew what it was.

  “What are you thinking, Lord York?”

  “That … um … I don’t know what I was thinking. My brain feels rather foggy.”

  “Oh, dear. Should I send someone out to the coffeehouse? Or would you prefer tea? There are cups among the props that we could use.”

  She turned and rose halfway, looking for a stagehand, he supposed.

  “No, Jo, not now,” Terence called. “Stay where you are.”

  “Thank you anyway,” Daniel said. “I will be all right. I suppose I think too much.”

  “Like my brother, perhaps you have too much to think about,” Jo said softly, “and too much work to do.”

  “True enough, Miss Shy. Yet we all must work together to make the show a success.” He gestured to the empty boxes and rows of benches. “We have a great many seats to fill.”

  Terence bustled back onto the stage. “At the moment, all I care about is these two seats. So. Here are our young lovers … oh, do not narrow your eyes like that, Daniel, I meant nothing by it. Let us see how they look in a rosy, romantic light.”

  Jo could just see Tom holding a framed piece of sheer pink material in front of a row of backstage lamps.

  “Oh, very nice. Now do you think we could add a breeze? If the flowers on the carpeted hill sway a little, it will add a touch of verisimilitude.”

  “A touch of what?” Tom called. “Blimey, I don’t think we have any. Ask McNeel. He has vermilion, I know, and verdigris, but I don’t know about that there verisimilitude.”

  “It is not paint, Tom. It means a lifelike touch. If those damned daisies stand up too straight, they do not look real.”

  “Bring on the bellows!” Tom called. “Himself wants a breeze!”

  A stagehand appeared, dragging a contraption that did indeed resemble a very large fireplace bellows, supported by an open frame. The stagehand began to operate it and the thing let out an asthmatic wheeze.

  “Dear me, it is noisy. We shall have to strike up the violins at that point.”

  “Lot of work just to make daisies move,” Tom grumbled.

  Terence gave him a lofty look. “God is in the details, or so they say.” He waved to the stagehand. “Try it again, if you please.”

  The stagehand operated the device with greater vigor than before and it blew much harder, flattening the poor little daisies and causing Jo to clutch her skirt to keep it from flying up. She exchanged a look and an embarrassed laugh with Daniel, who smoothed down his ruffled hair.

  “No, no!” Terence said crossly. “I want a gentle zephyr, not a damned gale.”

  The stagehand nodded. After several more tries, he produced a satisfactory breeze and was permitted to drag the machine away. Terence went back to the problem of the lights, while Daniel twiddled his thumbs.

  He could not be expected to sit right next to the object of his affections if her skirt was to fly up. God only knew what he might feel compelled to do next. He might very well kiss her in front of her brother, given sufficient provocation.

  “I am not certain this is the best use of my time, Terence. I had planned to look at the books today.”

  “To hell with the books. Look into her eyes,” Terence said. “I am trying to block the scene and set the order of the changes in light for it.”

  “That is all very well, but I do not see why—”

  “Look into her eyes!”

  Feeling foolish, Lord York turned to Jo and did as he was bid. Her eyes were a beautiful mixture of blue and green, with a mischievous sparkle.

  “Do not be embarrassed,” she whispered. “It is only make-believe.”

  Not at all, he wanted to say.

  “Jo, be still. Tom, can we get the light to fall directly on her face?”

  “I think so.” The stage manager fiddled with other screens and lights for a minute until the desired effect was achieved.

  “Lovely. Jo, you look positively radiant.”

  She propped her pretty chin on one hand and stuck out her tongue at her brother. It glowed pink in the artificial light.

  Lord York forced himself to look away.

  “Now pretend to feed him bits of ham.”

  “May I have a pretend ham, brother dear?”

  “Just pantomime the action, if you please. Feed him tenderly, as if he were a baby.”

  Lord York opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. The books could wait, he supposed.

  Jo picked up an imaginary knife and fork, and carved an imaginary ham. Picking up nothing with her fingertips, she brought them to Lord York’s lips.

  “Open moufy,” she whispered, giggling. “Be my baby.”

  Dear God. The tenderness in her tone sapped his strength. But he parted his lips ever so slightly. She popped in the imaginary tidbit. He pretended to chew, which was not easy, considering that he wanted to laugh at his predicament. Or howl with frustration.

  His ludicrous expression made Jo giggle even more.

  “Splendid,” Terence said. “Well played, you two. Daniel, would you like to understudy the blacksmith?”

  Lord York looked at him with horror. “Certainly not. Terence, I really must get some work done. I am happy to help you here, of course, but when will you finish?”

  Terence seemed not to hear the question and spoke to his sister. “Jo, feed him again. I would like to add a touch of purple to the light and see how that looks.”

  “Purple, eh? That’s for passion.” Molly’s braying voice came from the wings. She strolled onstage, still in the disreputable clothes she had worn on the street, with a looking-for-trouble gleam in her eyes. “Are his lordship and our Miss Shy playin’ the rustic lovers now?”

  “Of course not,” Terence said, once again preoccupied with the lights.

  The dancer put her hands on her hips. “They have had practice. I saw them in the alleyway right in back of the theater. Alone.”

  “What of it?” Terence replied.

  Jo, who had been expecting this to happen, was quite relieved that her brother did not seem in the least interested in Molly’s innuendos.

  “Be off, Molly,” Tom said contemptuously. “And don’t gossip about your betters.”

  She turned on the cracked heel of her street shoe and gave them all a haughty stare. “But his lordship wanted to give people something to talk about.”

  Lord York turned scarlet and exchanged a guilty look with Jo but he did not reply. Molly tossed him an arch look and walked out.

  “Did you really say that, Daniel?” Terence asked. “What were you doing in the alley?”

  “We were, ah, feeding stray cats,” Josephine said suddenly. At the moment, she did not want to tell Terence that she had gone to Samuel Picard’s shop without his permission or that Lord York had paid for McNeel’s supplies. She would, but not now. Certainly she would never tell her brother that his friend had kissed her. More than once.

  “Oh, well, I suppose people might talk about that. There are enough rats running around Covent Garden to feed a thousand stray cats. No one but my soft-hearted sister would ever think of giving them more to eat.”

  Terence said nothing else. Josephine was puzzled by her brother’s nonchalance but grateful for it all the same.

  Lord York rose from the table. “You must excuse me. I find that playacting makes me hungry. But I will have something sent
in and I will eat my lunch in the office. And if you don’t mind, Terence, I will begin to examine the books as I had planned.”

  “Not at all,” Terence said, “swot away.”

  Lord York made a slight bow to Josephine. “Miss Shy, it has been a pleasure. And thank you for the imaginary ham.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” she said, looking as demure as she could. She watched him walk through the door that was set into the proscenium arch and close it behind him.

  Her brother sent the stage manager away on some errand and studied her for a moment. “How prim you look. Feeding strays in the alley, eh? You will have a pack of starving tabbies following you about if you keep that up.”

  “I suppose you don’t believe me.”

  “I have much more important things on my mind. The lights and the blocking are only the beginning. But I appreciate your willingness to play along, Jo. You do seem to like Daniel and I needed to stall him.”

  She gave her brother a sharp look. “I did not realize you were stalling him.”

  Terence shrugged. “I am not at all sure that I want him to look at the books. But he is my partner and I cannot say no.”

  “Let him help you, Terence.”

  “I suppose I must.” He sighed. “Do you know, I never expected that putting on plays would be so exhausting. Or that I would be working almost without stopping, seven days a week.”

  “I find that I am never bored.”

  “Indeed, that is scarcely possible in the wonderful world of the theater,” her brother replied. There was a sarcastic edge in his voice. “The players are a rowdy lot and cheeky to a fault. Molly is the worst. I am not sure I should have given her a solo.”

  “No one else would have the nerve to fly about the stage.”

  “No, I suppose not. Not without a lucky chicken bone or some such charm to protect them, anyway. Superstition seems to be their religion.”

  Jo, remembering the faded garter that Lizzie still kept from her first perfomance, nodded in agreement.

  “They would rather sleep on Sunday than go to church. Oh, the theater is a den of iniquity.”

  “Don’t be silly, Terence.”

  “But the members of our company delight in behaving badly,” he went on. “Do you know, I cannot keep up with who is in or out of love with whom. They are quite free with their affections.”

  “I could make a list for you and note the changes daily,” she said.

  “Certainly not. It would only mean more jealous fights.”

  Josephine nodded. “I hope no one casts a longing glance at Harry Longwood. Lizzie would be quite put out.”

  “Well, she would win in the end. Lizzie brooks no rivals.”

  “That’s true,” Jo said.

  “I suppose I would hear at once if anyone attempts to take the blacksmith from her. They are all dreadful gossips. And backstabbers. It is not only a den of iniquity, it is a hotbed of vice. Have I forgotten to mention any?”

  “You left out the intrigues,” Jo said. “And don’t forget the spying.”

  “Oh, dear, I should not have told you quite so much. You are in danger of losing your innocence.”

  “Oh, that. Long gone. Haven’t missed it. I am enjoying myself immensely.”

  Terence stretched his legs a bit by walking around the stage. “Do you think that the show will be a hit, Jo? I cannot see the forest for the trees at this point.”

  “It will all come together by opening night.”

  “When? How? There seems to be no end to the confusion. Every single performer in today’s rehearsals missed a cue or two.”

  “But Lizzie is in fine fettle and she seems very pleased with Harry Longwood.”

  “I fear she will wear him out.”

  Jo gave him a suitably shocked look.

  “Forgive me. I meant upon the stage.”

  “So long as she is happy, she will do justice to Hugh’s songs. They are rather better than the play part,” she said tactfully.

  “I would agree. Our distinguished dramatist is a pompous ass who devotes five hours a day to sharpening pencils and five minutes to writing. But he is not bad at songs.”

  “Count your other blessings. The crew works hard. McNeel is a treasure.”

  “That’s true, Jo, and so is Ginny Goodchurch. How she puts up with Miss Loudermilk, I do not know.”

  “They have been friends for a very long time,” Jo pointed out.

  “Yes, they have gone from show to show together over the years, and Tom Higgins with them.”

  “His stagehands are like his soldiers,” Jo said.

  Terence grinned. “I suppose you could say that Signor Arlecchino has become the loose cannon in that army. One never seems to know what he will do next or where he will turn up. And is that not his voice now?”

  She turned at the sound of faint shrieks of laughter echoing down a nearby corridor and the clamor of an energetic pursuit. Jo recognized Molly’s bray and frowned. An exuberant male voice shouting in Italian mingled with hers.

  Within seconds, Molly dashed back onto the stage, with Arlecchino hot on her heels. “Ow, Mr. Shy! He won’t leave me alone!”

  They were not about to stop. The dancer and Arlecchino kept right on running.

  “Oh, dear. Molly is in love again,” Terence said, craning his neck to see which way they had gone.

  “I am happy for her,” Jo said.

  “Why? I should think you would dislike her for telling tales about you and Lord York. She has a malicious streak.”

  “True. But that is neither here nor there, my dear brother. However, if Molly is in love with Signor Arlecchino, that will give people something else to talk about.”

  He gave her a level look. “Besides you and Lord York, you mean. Is there something to talk about, Jo?”

  She turned pinker than she had under the stage light. “No.”

  Terence sighed. “What a pity.”

  Chapter Nine

  And a few weeks later …

  Lord York had sent his carriage to fetch Jo and Ginny home. Jo could just see the black gleam of it through the trees and shrubberies. He had thought a visit to the physick garden of Chelsea would do them good, and Ginny had begged to go, as she needed to buy dried lavender from its shop to freshen the costumes.

  And Jo, in Lord York’s opinion, had needed fresh air. She had not even wanted to argue. He had not accompanied them, being too busy. The ongoing rehearsals were longer and more chaotic than ever, and Terence had turned over most of the theater’s business management to his friend in order to concentrate upon the show.

  Her brother grumbled that the Almighty had created the entire world with less trouble in a mere seven days, and managed well enough with a hero and heroine made out of clay.

  Josephine thought the comparison was not apt. The Almighty had not had a troupe of unruly players to contend with and had not had to pay for the clay.

  Fortunately, Lord York was taking care of things like that. The outstanding bills had been paid in the space of a week. She was not sure how but she was ever more grateful to him, and her fond feelings for him grew fonder.

  However, there was nothing particularly romantic about their hours at the theater. There was simply too much to do. They were together nearly every day, beginning rehearsals before noon and working late into the evening. Such constant proximity brought back much of the happy ease of their childhood days together in Richmond, though Jo was not an onlooker now. The players and crew were as likely to turn to her as to Terence or Daniel when a decision had to be made.

  Dear Daniel. There seemed to be nothing he would not do for her brother or for her. He seemed to watch over them both. But he had not kissed her again. They were never alone, of course. Yet she caught him watching her often enough. There was a fond look in his eyes each time, which warmed her through and through. He was wont to ask her advice on little things and not a few of the larger ones. She was pleased by his attention, very pleased indeed.

  But Jo
wondered just how and when they might find themselves away from all the others once more.

  She wandered down another path, letting the large and somewhat cumbersome bag in her hand swing a little, determined to enjoy the outing for as long as she could.

  She and Ginny had been left at the garden by the coachman several hours ago and he had only just returned. She looked over her shoulder to see him jump down with a leathern bucket in his hand and look about for a pump to water the horses. He did not seem to have noticed her.

  Not eager to leave, Jo kept to the path. She could see Ginny as well, on the other side of the garden, bending over the beds of herbs, sniffing at a flowering plant now and then, and crushing a leaf from another in her fingers.

  The quiet paths hummed with bees and the air was filled with the mingled fragrance of early summer flowers. The sweetness, the realness of everything she saw refreshed her soul. She had been too long away from the country, and too confined at the theater. When she had stepped down from the carriage that morning, the sunlight had made her blink.

  Jo came to a bench set beneath a trellis covered with rambling roses and sat down. With a smile, she opened her bag and took out the “wee present” that the ever-industrious McNeel had made just for her.

  It was a desk, not exactly wee, but not very large and most ingeniously constructed, with a hinged lid that slanted and several interior compartments. She settled it upon her lap and lifted the lid.

  Her mother’s last letter was inside. Jo had been remiss in not answering it promptly. She unfolded it and read it again from start to finish.

  Dearest Jo,

  We are enjoying Bath, as much as we are able, taking the waters and seeing the sights. (The waters taste dreadful, by the way.) Your cousin Penelope assures me of the beneficial effects and my new physician says that I shall soon be skipping about like a lamb, but I do not know about that.

  Speaking of lambs, your brother, who was so good as to write (and I am sure that I have you to thank for that) said that he is producing a play called The Shepherdess. He assures me that the most scrupulously moral persons would find nothing shocking in it. He said the songs are wonderfully melodious and that the most venerable theatergoers will be able to sleep though them in perfect comfort. He also mentioned a chorus of nymphs and satyrs. It sounds lovely, Jo!